There are the signs of changing seasons that are meant to be reveled in.
Meant to be delighted in for what they are: distinctive
That smell as I walked out into a wetted world, one of those glory smells.
Just glorious!
It catches me off guard & my gasp turns into smile.
That's not a scent that I can recreate or pull up in memory any time I want.
Yet I know exactly the smell of rain-damped macadam in the spring.
And I love taking time to love that. To notice such a detail.
So I walk home in the night on purpose:
guitar in one hand, umbrella in the other; content.
And I leave my window open for a few minutes tonight so I can lay here in the dark and hear this noise: rain.
Falling & striking; soaking & filling; washing & rushing
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